A Game of Poker
by MedicSquid
Summary: A look inside Engineer's thoughts during the war. Perhaps he's more troubled then he lets on?


_A/N: Hello. This is just a little drabble I concocted last night before I went to bed about Engie's thoughts. Reviews welcome.  
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War was war, and I understand that. It is endless suffering and agony, and only a fool would expect comfort on the battlegrounds. The tossing and turning in bed night after night was a routine for me, and honestly, it didn't bother me a bit. I'm easily adaptable, and I guess I've been using that term as my scapegoat for the insanity that is slowly creeping into the depths of my mind. My thoughts don't focus, and yet that word keeps appearing. It's like a bad cold you can't shake, and it's taking its toll on me.

I was contracted into this war because I have the head of Einstein, being able to think up blueprints for sentries faster than Scout could run from base to base on 2Fort. Some could say I was built for war. A war machine; designed to build and destroy; heartlessly, ruthlessly. I disagree. I have just as much heart as the next man. Hell, if not as much then two times bigger. However, I've just learned not to care much now. You kill the enemy, they come back. You hurt them, they get healed. I don't think of it as a sin, more of a job, yet it still hurts. It's unexplainable how during the heat of the battle, it doesn't really affect you; just a feather on your shoulder, nothing too serious. Yet when, at times like this, where you're lost in your thoughts? It'll make a grown man break out in cold sweats and tremble like a child.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I get paid to "kill" perfectly good people who are just like me. My doppelganger has 100% my skills, and if not then 110%. They all have families to get back to at home, and I know not one of them who doesn't donate at least a penny to wherever they came from. They all have something to look forward to after this pointless feud and that makes them just like me. At first, it didn't bother me, but now that I think about it, it's like I'm slowly killing myself by hurting these people. It sounds ridiculous but I just can't shake the thought, and the more I ponder, the more my heart hurts.

Yet there's my problem. I'm troubled. In my thoughts, in my head, a dark cloud is casted over my vision constantly, and no rainbow has shown for the longest of times. This is where I have trouble figuring out this war. More specifically, my place in it. Now who in Sam Hill would send me, a perfectly good Texan with a wife and kids, off to some insane battle where no one can win? Then again, who would accept such an offer? This battle makes me question my right mind quite a bit, and I'm wondering if I'm just going crazy with the rest of my team or if I'm just adaptable. Scapegoat keeps coming back and haunting me, and honestly these days, I fear my nightly visits with my mind. It makes me all the more depressed, and lord knows I can't show it around my teammates or they won't stop pestering me about it.

You know, I like to think of myself as a kind man. I grew up in Texas, and my heart's as big as my mom's apple pie, but I'm confused. Have I changed? This war. It's as simple and petty as a rock on the side of the road, yet I let it shape me. I guess I'm just a ball of putty in that old hag Helen's wrinkled hands. It hurts to admit, but it's true. Whether I'd like to admit it or not, I sold my soul to Satan with that contract, and ain't nothing going to tear it until this war is won. Excuse me, _if_ this war is won. How long has it been now? Seven years? Eight? Only Lord knows.

Truthfully, I don't want it to be like this. I don't want to be like those gray, lifeless zombies I walked in on when I first joined BLU. Those men, who had long since _permanently retired_, just drank and fought, not giving a care in the world for anything out of those lines. It was frightening, but I think it's even scarier realizing you're headed that way. If things keep going the way they are now, only death will get me out of this contract, and I know I'm not going to be relieved in the afterlife with Lucifer's hold on my soul.

These nice young recruits, so fresh and lively. I pity them. Their virgin eyes haven't seen the worst, and I'm going to have to be there when it hits them. Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe then, I won't have to suffer alone. Maybe then, a little relief will tumble off my worn out stiff shoulders. If that's the case, then I will anxiously await that day. It sounds selfish because it is selfish; sacrificing my teammate's wellbeing for my own relief. But hell, I've been in here for most of my thirties. Would it kill them to realize why I don't associate much with them anymore? Why I'm withdrawn? Why every day I come out with large dark bags under my eyes? I don't think so. The pain should be equally shared.

Then it hit me. _I'm talking to myself inside my head_. Does that mean that this is all just a dream? A hallucination? I yearn for it to be, yet the deepest part of my stomach is screaming no. _No. No. No_. It's constantly ringing in my ears, the high frequency blocking out everything else, the panic setting in, my heart pumping furiously, my eyes darting, my forehead sweating, my feet tapping, my teeth clenching, my muscles tensing, my finger twitching, curling, pulling, the trigger-

"Engie!"

I glanced up, my teammates were crowded around the table; beers in their hands, smiles on their faces. I shook my head, blinking my eyes rapidly to wipe away the haze.

"Want me to deal you in?" Soldier asked, his cigar clenched between his white teeth as he shuffled a mismatched deck of cards in his hands.

I swallowed, fiddling with a fold in my pants as the others looked at me eagerly, a light twinkle in their eyes as they waited. I felt my neck run cold, the corners of my mouth twitching ever so slightly.

"I'm in."


End file.
